


Blue Stained Glass

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar delusions, Canonical Child Abuse, Canonical Gallagher family fucked-upness, Canonical Milkovich family fucked-upness, Delusional Ian Gallagher, Gen, Implied Cheating, M/M, Major Character Death in case you missed that, Multiple Lives, Svetlana sees dead people, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 01:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: READ THE WARNINGS PLEASE.  ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.  AND READ THE CHAPTER WARNINGS.Some canon rules apply, I will tag those, so please be mindful of tags.  Unless you trust me enough to make all of it make sense by the end, then carry on my friend and I'll see you on the other side.  If you make it to the other side, I'm pretty sure it'll be worth it.----------His fingers nonetheless, his fingers that rise the electricity, the bolts of lightening, call the tide to the moon, damn Ian’s flesh to never feel anything beyond those fingers burning and zapping and making him toxic to anyone else.And they’re the same, and Ian hears himself whisper, “I know you,” as those fingers rise with a lit cig to his perfect lips.He blows the smoke slowly through the damp Spring air between them, Ian watches the cloud linger, hover, dissipate and the space between them clear of all obstructions, a cocky curl to his lips and a low warning growl, “no you fuckin’ don’t.”----------





	1. Melting Snow

I stood in the window today. I watched the sun melting the snow off the roof. Rivulets of water pouring from the gutters. Splashing on the ground, pounding themselves against the slick icy wasteland below. Shattering and breaking. Becoming nothing more than minuscule pieces of blindingly bright reflections of sun bouncing off the ice only to shatter once more on the bare cement. Melting, spreading, disappearing in the vastness of the puddles born of melted snow and broken dreams. Lost promises drowning in a sea of torment and strife.

I stood in the window today. I let the sun lick my face until it was warm. Until it was burning holes in my flesh. Melting away the layers of cold, harsh winds and frozen breath. Until the ache of winter was falling away from my bones. Until it was burning at my feet. A pile of ash. Lighting a funeral pyre. 

I stood in the window today. Watching a heavy wet pile of white snow fall from the branch of the white pine outside. Watching it slide from the green needles. Throwing itself at the ground without regard for landing safely. Crashing and breaking against the snowbank. Falling to pieces of white dust in a field of white dust. 

I stood in the window today. And I thought of you. 

I thought of your breath on my neck. And your hands on my flesh. I thought of the fire in your kisses. And the ice in your eyes. Frozen ice crystals on blue stained glass. 

I thought of the ice encasing your feet. The ice that keeps you stagnant. Still and afraid. I thought of the winters getting colder and ice getting stronger. The hold pulling tighter. The blocks freezing to the ground. Unmoving. Chills of terror in his voice in your ear. Of his fists against your flesh. Crunching bone and bruising tissue. Freezing you in place. 

I stood in the window today. I watched the sun painting the sky in shades of morning. I watched it’s warm fingers reaching and caressing the ice. It’s lips kissing the snow. Melting it layer by twisted brutal layer. I watched it pool into nothing more than liquid and slide gently across the porch step. I watched it dance and swirl down the railing. I watched the sun tenderly urge the ice away from the face of this earth. And I thought of you. 

And I thought of me. And I thought of how through these years I’ve been swinging an ice pick at your feet. I’ve been smashing a hammer on the ice. I’ve been breaking and shattering your icy encasement. 

And I thought today, today will be the day I become the sun. Today will be the day that I paint your face in shades of gentle morning. Today will be the day that I reach out with just the tips of my fingers and caress that ice around your soul. Today will be the day that I tenderly kiss my heat into the snow fort built up around your heart. Today will be the day that I watch the cold darkness of winter fall away from your being. I will melt it slowly and gently. I will work my way through every single layer of cold and alone that you’ve felt all this time. I will do it slowly until every snowflake has become water. Until every icicle has started falling off the eaves. Until every crackling encasement from the fingertip of Jack Frost has been replaced with a easily burning flame. Warm and inviting. Until I have cloaked you with the heat of my body and the comfort of my soul. 

I will stand on the other side of that glass. I will watch your blue stained glass eyes as the frost cracks and melts in a pool of tears. Tears that I will dry with the heat of my love.


	2. The Glass Blower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Glass Blower

The Glass Blower

 

I stood outside of a cathedral today. An abandoned and looted structure. Ripped bare of it’s internal glory. I watched as the sun peered through a broken pane of blue stained glass and I stepped upon the cracked concrete steps. I felt so small standing in the arches of the doorway. My boots echoing on the marble floors as I walked. 

Stepping over a water-stained bible, a torn hymnal discarded before me. The lone pew was wooden. Etched deep in it’s back were the words ‘abandon hope all ye who enter here’. I traced my fingers over the scars on it’s flesh. And I thought of you.

My feet sunk in when I stepped on the rotten blood-red carpet, waterlogged with rain. As I looked skyward I saw the broken panes of a rose window. Shattered panes of glass, leaving the floor beneath open to nature’s treachery. Rain drops slowly splattering my face as I watched the outline of a bird soaring high in the grey clouds swirling above me. Beginning to blow in on the cool Spring wind.

I fell to my knees at the alter. But I did not pray. I wept. I wept for the boy you once were. Such a long time ago. Before his booze-laced breath in your ear forced you to believe you were worthless. Useless. Unlovable. Undesirable. A waste. 

Through the tears staining my cheeks I looked upon an angel. An angel in stained glass. He had inky black hair, sapphire blue eyes. His halo was crooked and his wings were broken. And his face. His face was stricken with grief. As though he was weeping right along with me. He was not reaching for the Heavens. He was not reaching for God’s love and mercy. He was not being thrown to Earth in fiery damnation. He was not being dragged to Hell by the beast of revelation. 

He was reaching for me. 

And I thought of you.

The sound of raindrops splattering the marble of the apse as I rose to my feet. My right hand was extended as I walked around the alter. The sound of wind howling through the arches of the sanctuary. The sound only intensifying as I neared the angel. Behind him was the sea, at his feet a dove. An olive branch across his lap. 

His eyes. How his eyes had seen the darkest depths of Hell. And how they peered into my soul, winding my breath from my lungs, snaking through my throat and pulling it out from between my lips. A chord that he wrapped around his finger. Woven with love and fear. How he wore my soul like a rosary around his neck. Fingering every bead as he prayed for my earthly form. 

His eyes. How they had seen the worst I had to offer. How they had never forgotten the best in me. And I thought of you. 

My hand was trembling as I reached out to trace the mosaic lead framework of his being. 

My hand was trembling as I reached out to trace the line of your jaw. Trace the softness of your lips. As I combed through your hair. My hands were trembling as I leaned into your warmth and presence. As they slide down the back of your head and came to rest on your neck. As I breathed your breath and swallowed your essence. As you and I became one soul, one being, one mind. 

My eyes opened and I saw him breaking. Blue stained glass on the floor. Sparkling and jagged. Glistening with nature’s tears at my feet. Painfully beautiful and capable of slicing through my very soul, carving through my flesh layer by twisting layer. 

You are the broken blue stained glass at my feet. And today, today as I stand in the empty sanctuary of an abandoned church, today I will begin to gather all of your pieces. I will gather every single shard of your broken being. No matter how they slice, cut and bleed my fingers. I will gather your pieces and I will begin to slowly, gently, tenderly place them back where they belong. 

You are the broken blue stained glass in my palms, piercingly brilliant and bright. You are the blue-stained glass against my bleeding fingertips. And I, I am the glass blower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is going to get pretty rough, I'm not going to lie. Please heed the chapter warnings and don't go off on me for storyline aspects that you don't approve of unless you read the whole thing.
> 
> I sat on the bulk of these chapters all summer, thinking they were too potent to share. That I'd catch heat for some of the aspects of it even though I'm warning you and I'm tagging appropriately (if I missed any tags, feel free to let me know). And you can expect by now that I'll fix the things I break.
> 
> I expect from you as a reader to read the tags if you are in fact triggered by any of those topics, then please take a pass on this one and I'll see you back over at the circus. If you are not triggered by any of these tags and you trust me, then you can expect from me as the writer to treat these topics with respect in ways that the show didn't. 
> 
> I will try to post this all today. If I don't get to all of it, then I will at least try to post the worst of it before tonight and finish it tomorrow.


	3. When I See You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I See You

“Orange boy was at mailbox again,” Svetlana sighs, fingers trailing the length of the tri-folded paper.

“Yeah?” his eyebrows don’t even respond. His eerily pale blue eyes lingering on her face, he doesn’t ask what it says anymore. He doesn’t need to. He knows. 

“Yes. Something about being in empty church.”

Half nod, his attention turns back to the baby in his high chair. He has peas smeared all over his cheeks and his fingers.

Svetlana raises the bib to his face, wiping the excess from the corners of his mouth. Peering at her husband for a moment when he doesn’t know she’s watching. The way his eyes soften when they linger on Yevgeny’s face. Gentle. Something she knew him capable of from the moment she laid eyes on him. Something his father was not capable of. Not now. Maybe never.

His eyes dart over to hers with a glare, not very effective anymore, but she looks away. Shrugging to herself, taking the steps to the kitchen counter for the coffee pot. Out of habit she takes two mugs out of the cabinet, filling the first to the rim.

“Don’t,” he reminds her with a quiet pain in his voice as the carafe lingers over the second mug, the very first drop hanging from the lip, swaying over the ceramic and falling with a tiny explosion of golden-brown liquid inside the stained cup.

It stings in her eyes but she breathes it out in feigned amusement, “I wonder when I’ll remember.”

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. She feels it in the air around them. Her focus shifts to where his fingers have been hovering over the paper since she set it on the table. FUCK U-UP. She used to wonder if the threat was worth the ink. She never believed it back then. When she met him. When she met him, bloodied and beaten on the couch. He was broken. Not much different than herself.  
Yevgeny squalls when his spoon hits the floor and Mickey’s eyes linger on his face. He doesn’t reach for the boy. Or the spoon. He simply watches. And waits. 

She’s slow in her movement to the boy. Waiting as well, waiting for the moment when his blue eyes link with the reflection of his own. It will happen. 

Just not today. As she bends for the spoon, sets it on his tray and fingers his hair from forehead to the nape of his neck. Leaning forward to press lips against the top of his head. Taking a lingering breath of his scent. 

————

“Is not healthy,” the baby is on her hip. 

“Does it matter anymore?” he stops on the top step of the porch.

“You do not owe him anything.”

His broad shoulders shrug, hanging low in defeat. 

“He is grown man.”

His back towards her as the dimness of a city evening spreads over them like a thin worn blanket of grey.

“He needs to take care of himself.”

“He can’t,” he barely whispers it but he may as well be shouting in her ear. Chills race down her spine, ripping her core in half. 

“You are hurting yourself.”

His head finally turns, eyes burning bright now in the evening light, landing immediately on hers and remaining, “does it matter anymore?”

A tear stings at the corner of her eye and halts her breath for just a moment, “I suppose no.”

He nods slowly, a defeated expression steals his face while his focus shifts to the baby, “I’ll see you…”

“When I see you.”


	4. I Hurt You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I Hurt You
> 
> WARNING: Implied cheating, emphasis on the word IMPLIED, and Ian is delusional. So you've been warned.
> 
> So don't lose your shit on me. If you're not picking up on the hints yet, this will make sense later, read it all the way before you lose your shit on me. Or just back out if you can't handle implied cheating. There is always the option to leave like you were never here.

The music is loud the drinks are strong the lights are flashing. The bodies are warm the mouths are hot the energy is buzzing. His fingertips are lightning and the hips they’re pressed into have an electricity of their own. They’re pale and smooth and soft. His eyes linger on the right cheek, on the pellet scars from a different lifetime. So faded. So soft. Barely there. Not there. Not there in this lighting. He can’t see them unless he closes his eyes. He closes his eyes and they’re right there. They’re under his fingertips when he moves, traces over his hip and his asscheek and lets his fingers press the dents of the pellet scars deeper, deeper into the perfectly fleshy mounds that are only made more perfect by the story of their past. 

His eyes travel the length of his spine. The light in this room is hued in reds. The VIP room. His luminescent flesh is red in this room. It’s red and it’s glazed in sweat. 

His shoulders are broad and strong and every single muscle line is visible. Every vertebrae and the flats of his shoulder blades. The beauty in his form halts the breath in Ian’s lungs and his fingers spread wide, and flat, traveling the trail of his spine from the cleft of his ass to the back of his head. Landing in his crow’s feather black hair and lingering, sliding through until he finds the right spot to hold on. Not to turn his head or force his gaze or cause him pain. Just to hold. Just to have a place to grasp. 

His fingers are gripping the back of the chair. Head dipped between his arms, as he gasps. Ian’s hips instinctively pick up pace, knowing the tell. Knowing he’s close. 

Left hand sliding up his side, across his strong, tense arm, and finding his fingers. Pressing until he gives him the opening to slip between. Clamping down tight, knowing that’s the edge. That’s the nudge. The clamping of his fingers on his hand, that’s the last push as he thrusts deeply and watches the muscles in his back and shoulders flex and strain with his ragged breath. 

He leans forward, resting his cheek against Mickey’s spine for just a moment, letting the sweet scent of his sweat invade his nostrils as the last pulse of orgasm is ripped from his body. Then he turns, his nose shifting against his flesh and he takes note of something different. A new scent. It’s not the body spray. It’s not the soap. It’s not the deodorant. It’s what’s beneath. It’s that Earthy grunge that’s off. It’s off somehow. It’s not right.

His fingers release the hair on the crown of his head. They’re sticky with hair product. And it’s not right. It’s not the right kind of sticky. It’s not the right kind of product. 

There’s a grunt falling across his ears. And it’s not the right grunt. His fingers release the ones they’ve been gripping, his face leans out of his warm welcoming flesh and his breath catches when he sees there are no letters there. There are no letters on his FUCK U-UP fingers. 

When did he change? 

“Mickey?”

“What?” it’s wrong. 

“Noth…” he stutters, blinking rapidly as the club VIP room comes into focus and drifts away again. It’s not the club, it’s the Alibi, it’s the Alibi on a night when the snow is nothing more than blocks of melted and refrozen ice in the gutters. When the blood is fresh, the ribs are broken, and the bruises haven’t begun to form yet. When his smile is uncertain and his breath is a cold puff of air in the late winter’s night. 

Ian backs away. Guilt cutting through him as the club comes into focus again. Of course it wasn’t Mickey. Mickey wouldn’t be here. Not here. He’d never be in the VIP room. He’d never do this. He’s at home. Mickey is at home with his wife and their son. Mickey is at home waiting. 

He’s waiting. 

And this is wrong. This is all so wrong. 

He watches as a handful of bills is flopped down on the table. He watches the hand that was just clamped in his own, his breath caught in his chest and his mouth dry, the hands that aren’t right. He watches as the shirt is pulled over the head of strawberry blonde hair and the face appears without an animated brow and a cocky smirk. He watches as the pants are pulled up from the floor and they’re clean. They’re not the right dirty jeans. He watches the skin, the skin that was moments ago pale and luminescent, reflecting the red light of the VIP room. He watches the skin that’s golden bronze even under the red light. He watches the body retreat, he watches the body that’s not right, the body that isn’t right, none of it is right as it exits the room. 

He swallows hard but it doesn’t change things. It doesn’t fix things. It’s still Mickey. It’s still Mickey under his fingers and against his palm. It’s still Mickey. Even when it isn’t. 

————

He’s leaning against the lamppost at closing time. He’s watching the sidewalk with a faraway look in his eyes. Like maybe he could just start walking, and keep walking until the sidewalk ends and becomes grass and river and industry. And he could keep walking until it becomes state-lines and country borders and oceans and mountains and maybe he’d never stop. Maybe he’d just keep going forever if he could just get his feet to start moving. Just one step is all it would take. One step to leave it all behind. 

The orange tip of the cigarette rises. Ian watches it from near the door of the club. He loves him like this. When he doesn’t know he’s being watched. When he’s just being Mickey and he doesn’t worry about who is seeing him doing whatever he’s doing. And he doesn’t care anyway. He can stand under the glow of a city streetlight and dream, he can dream of a future outside of the glare of the lights and the noise of the traffic and the claustrophobia of the city.

He wonders as he watches, he wonders if Mickey ever had dreams. If he ever had the chance to dream. If he was allowed the dream of a child. Or if it was just another thing that Terry took from him. 

“Come to the loft tonight,” Paul offers from beside Ian.

His head turns, landing on his creased eyes, “I think I’ll…”

“Oh come on. Just for one. We love having you there Ian,” he leans into Ian’s face as his hand slides down his chest, “I’m fully stocked,” whispering against Ian’s lips, his tongue darts out with a pill on the tip of it. Ian knows it’s a heart-shaped pill with an X imprinted on it. As his eyes float towards the lamppost to his shadow, Ian’s tongue meets Paul’s, wondering if he could just give him the reason to leave. Give him the final reason to take the steps, to walk away. 

————

He wakes in the broad light of midday with fingers gently combing through his hair. His cheek resting on a warm chest, up and down. Gentle and even. Wide awake and probably staring at the way the strands of Ian’s hair catch the light spilling in the open curtains.  
Ian’s hand is resting on his stomach. His lean stomach that’s soft now, soft and relaxed. It’s the only time he’s not a wire stretched taut and ready to snap. First thing in the morning, when it’s just the two of them, when it’s just the two of them and he’s not waiting for someone to come crashing into their solace. 

But Ian’s voice does, it comes out of his mouth without his permission, knowing it will break the trance and the softness will become hard and the peace will become turmoil and the trust will break. 

How can you break something that’s already been broken a million times?

“Mick, I…”

“I know,” it’s quiet. It’s distant. It’s barely a whisper that echoes in Ian’s mind.

“It’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” he sighs across his bare flesh, watching it, waiting for the moment it becomes hardened again. Muscles rigid and stretched across bones. Unyielding between the knobs of his pelvis, the knobs that fit perfectly in Ian’s grasp, “I che…”

“It’s okay,” he repeats gently. 

“No it’s not,” his head spins and his stomach knots. Has he done this before? Has he done this enough times that he doesn’t even care anymore? That it’s just become the norm? 

His breath doesn’t quiver. His fingers don’t rise. The pattern of sun and shade on the bed shifts and his pale skin seems to be lit from within.

“I hurt you.”

“Does it matter anymore?” it’s calm. Unaffected. It’s distant.

“Yes,” he sighs and his eyes close. They only close for a moment. Just a blink. Just a blink. But when they open, he’s gone. He never felt him leave. He never felt him shift. He never heard his footsteps. 

“Mi…”

“Morning.”

Sleepy face, it’s whispering against his hair and his eyes shift, flitting up to the face of the man who’s chest his cheek is resting against.

“Morning,” he hears himself respond. Watching as the skin darkens. It shifts from ghostly white and pale, hairless and soft, muscular and tender. It shifts to dark and toffee brown, hair that’s sparse but wiry. 

“Quite a night,” fingers in his hair. But they’re not right.


	5. He'll Do Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'll Do Better

He’s sitting there in the morning. When she sets the baby in his high chair, his head rises and his eyes lock onto hers. Nodding a morning greeting, watching her click the tray into place in front of their son. 

His fingers linger over the tri-folded paper she set there last week. It’s remained since. Along with the stack of others. 

“You got enough money?”

She shrugs, “roof over head, food in belly.”

“The best you’ll ever do,” something flashes in his eyes, something like sadness, but Svetlana is not ready. Not ready to speak of it. Any of it.

In the kitchen her hands reach for two mugs, her left fingers ghosting the handle of his favorite one, before he sighs, “don’t.”

“Yes,” her hand lingers anyway. Watching the wedding band now. Unsure of why it’s still there. But there are men at Sasha’s who pay extra for married woman. Fulfilling some fantasy, or getting psychological payback on their own cheating wife. 

She shakes her head to herself, sets a lone mug on the counter and fills it to the rim before she can meet his eyes. 

“He’ll do better,” he promises.

“Better than mother. Better than father.”

His eyes twinkle then, landing on the boy chasing Cheerios around his tray, “much better than his father.”

————

“You do not need to follow me.”

“I know.”

“You have other duties.”

He shrugs, “he’s been sleeping again.”

“This is good?”

“Not really. ‘Least he found his way home.”

“Home?”

It stalls out in the air between them. Her vision drops to the baby in the stroller and she waits for that word to settle in his mind. 

“Debbie and Carl are taking care of him.”

“Too much for children.”

“Yeah, well Fiona and Lip are too busy not caring. Guess that leaves the children.”

————

He left halfway through her shift. When he realized she was just fine. Anatoly was posted at the door and Yevgeny was safe with the girls. Passing him from girl to girl, whoever is not busy. Whoever has the free hand to hold him. As long as he is not in room with a client, then he is okay. 

She takes the long way home. She watched as the baby’s blue eyes grew heavy with sleep in the stroller and she kept walking. The cooling Spring air around her and the quiet hum of the city echoing on the streets. 

She takes the long way home and she stops on the sidewalk in front of the Gallagher house. And she waits. She waits until that skinny bitch with unruly brown hair comes into focus on the sidewalk’s shadows in front of her. She waits and she stands in front of the gate, knowing the girl will walk right past her if she’s given the opportunity. Knowing she’ll ignore her presence and tell her right before she closes the door that she’s unwelcome here. 

She plants herself firmly in front of the gate and watches as she comes to a halt with a dare in her eyes and a lit smoke in her hands, “what do you want?”

“Orange boy has been leaving letters.”

“Why should I care?”

“He is not well.”

“I know that. He won’t take the meds. I can’t just pick him up and carry him to the psych ward. What do you want me to do?”

She feels him behind her suddenly. She takes a deep breath and she removes the piece of jewelry from her purse. She holds it out to Fiona, “give him this.”

“Why?”

“Does not matter to you. Does not matter to me. Does matter to him.”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs at Svetlana, but she reaches out and takes the ring. Pinching it between her fingers like she can’t bear to touch it, like it is booger from child’s nose, “is that all?”

Anger boils up her spine and she bites her tongue to keep herself from lashing out. Is that all? Is that all? Is that all it ever was?  
She nods. And steps out of the way.

“Thank you,” his voice is barely a whisper. But it stifles the anger and smothers the loneliness.


	6. I'll Get Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll Get Better

The grass is green, the birds are singing a chorus of happiness echoing in his head. The sun is bright and bouncing off Mickey’s alabaster cheeks, nearly blinding as he smiles. The sparkling ocean of his eyes the only one Ian has ever seen. His hands resting on Mickey’s left as the jewelry meets his fingers, he watches as FUCK pushes the ring over his knuckle and Mickey whispers, “I give this ring as my gift to you. Wear it and think of me and know that I love you. I gladly join my life to yours forever as your husband.”

He breathes and he smiles and he watches Mickey do the same. A type of calm he’s never felt before falling around him like the gentle rays of a late Autumn afternoon. 

————

“I need to take you in Ian,” Fiona is sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his arms and talking to him like he’s a child, “we need to get you some help. We can’t keep doing this. We can’t. You can’t. It’s not fair.”

It tears through his skull and bounces around in every lobe of his brain. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

And it’s still not fair as she’s checking him in and he’s signing the chart. It’s still not fair as he’s dressing in the hospital issued clothes that aren’t much different than prison issued. It’s not fair as they’re snapping the bracelet around his wrist and his eyes linger on the gold wedding band on his finger and he thinks of Mickey. Mickey and Yev are waiting for him. They need him. They need him and he needs to get out of here. 

So he takes the meds. And he talks to the group. And he talks to the shrink. And he knows he has to get out of here. He has to get out of here and get to Mickey. Mickey needs him. Yev needs him. Mickey doesn’t know how to take care of a baby. Mickey doesn’t know how to love a baby. Mickey needs help. 

So he allows the numbness and the nausea and the seventy-two hours of pain. A pain of knowing. Of knowing he doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong here with these people who are staring at him and getting too close to him and Mickey would tell them to ‘push the fuck back psycho’ and it makes Ian smile when he thinks of that. And he spins the wedding band on his finger and marvels at how well it fits after all this time. Or has it only been a short time? He’s not sure. He’s still young. But Mickey has been his forever, hasn’t he?

He sits on the bottom bunk in the ward and he watches his ring and he wonders if Mickey was here, what would he say? Would he make some joke about calling bottom. Would he strut in here with the same ugly hospital issued dress and somehow make it look sexy as hell? Would he grab him with a rough hand to the back of his neck and drag him to his lips? Would he kiss him until he couldn’t see straight and he couldn’t breathe? 

He sits on the edge of the bed and he watches the door. And he knows, he knows Mickey will be entering that door soon. He’ll be smirking and he’ll be looking at Ian and he’ll slide into the bunk and his hand will come to rest behind his head and he’ll wait. He’ll wait for Ian to slide in on top of him. He’ll look at his eyes and he’ll smile gently. He’ll nudge his nose and he’ll lean in. He’ll light the spark that’ll burn the flesh off his body and char his soul, making him burn for eternity too brightly for anyone else to handle. 

“Mickey,” he sighs as he leans over him in the bottom bunk, “we’ll go home soon,” leaning forehead to forehead and breathing in the scent of him, “I’ll get better. I’ll get better for you. And for our son,” his hands slide through his black hair, thumbs settling at his jaw to tilt his face, “I love you.”


	7. I'm Not Strong Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm Not Strong Enough

Her feet are tapping out the rhythm of her anxiety, propped on the coffee table in front of her. Scanning through the magazine in her lap. Waiting. This is nothing new. This place, this visiting room, this space of being in between. In between the mania and the depression and the delusions and the clarity and the hyper-sexuality and the paralyzing fear. In between the bloody wrists and the running off. In between the aggressive shouts to leave me alone and the overjoyed shouts to come along. Just come along. You’ll love it. 

You’ll love it there Fiona.

You’ll love it.

The door opens and he shuffles out. His hair is mused and his face is pale. His smile is gone and his eyes are on the floor.

She stands and meets him in the middle. Taking his shoulders in her hands for a moment until his eyes rise to meet hers. Empty. Empty green eyes that were overflowing with life and promise and a future once. She buries her face in his shoulder before she can weep for the boy he was and the man he’ll never be, “hey Sweet Face,” she breathes into his neck and feels his hands rise slowly. So slowly, heavy with sedation and stalled with nausea and a throbbing headache. She stays in a light embrace, touching him hurts. Being near him hurts. Everything hurts. 

But his hands land on her back. They land there and they stay and he breathes against her and she remembers holding him when he was so young and his fever was so hot and she was so afraid she was going to lose him. And now, now he is lost.

She doesn’t want to let him go, but he leans away. His eyes land on hers and she’s not even certain it’s her face that he sees, wondering, “where’s Yevgeny?”

She chokes on her voice as it halts and stutters out of her mouth, “he’s at home Ian.”

His focus shifts to the empty visiting room, “with Mickey.”

It’s not a question. So she doesn’t answer. Even though it pulses through her, threatening to tear her stomach out before she can swallow it back down.

“Of course he’s home with Mickey,” he leans into her face, like he’s sharing a secret, “that’s why Mickey’s been coming here at night.”

It shudders through the air, wafting into her ears along with his warm breath and the deadness in his eyes. It snakes through her head and leaves a sour taste in her mouth. It settles on her tongue like despair and regret and hate. It leaves her bitter and angry and how can you hate the disorder when the disorder is the boy standing in front of you? And how can you hate the disorder when the disorder is the mother that was supposed to love you? And you loved him. You raised him. And loved him through everything you thought you’d have to love him through. And you’re not sure anymore. You’re not sure if you’re strong enough to love him through this. And it quivers in the back of your throat and sends a shudder down your spine and you breathe and you force a smile and you touch his cheek and you tell him, “I brought cookies. Debbie baked them. She’s in school, otherwise she would have come along today.”

She watches her hand rise, it’s shaking and she hopes he can’t see that, as it slides through his hair and his empty eyes linger on her face and he admits, “I’m tired.”

“I know,” and she does. She knows. She knows but she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand why it had to be him. Why it had to be him. 

“I’m going back to bed.”

“Okay,” her breath quivers and she bites her lip, letting her hand fall from his hair to his shoulder, down his arm and into his hand. She squeezes but he doesn’t squeeze back.

————

She doesn’t leave the bedroom right away after she tucks Liam in. She watches Carl’s arm dangling off the top bunk. She listens to him breathe. She watches Liam’s sheet rising and falling with his gentle pattern. She stands in the doorway. And her eyes shift to the empty mattress. The camo patterned sheets and the military posters. She remembers when she moved him to that bed. When Carl was big enough for the top bunk. And he wanted the top bunk. When Lip was more often sleeping elsewhere. 

She remembers when he had strep throat. And she sat on the bed beside his hip and rubbed his shoulders until he fell asleep. She remembers watching him as he told her he’s gay. She remembers dive-bombing the bed on his fifteenth birthday when it was noon already and he was still asleep. 

She remembers one night, one night before he left. The first time he left. He was sitting awake in the night. He had a notebook on his knee and he was leaning over it in the darkness and scrawling something on it. There were no lights on. There was no way he could see what he was writing. It hit her like a bomb going off in her stomach but she blamed it on anything else. It was anything else. 

And then he was gone. And she knew. She knew what it was. She knew exactly what it was. But it was easier to ignore, wasn’t it? It was easier to focus on the job and the kids and the man and the house and she had a million other problems and she couldn’t be bothered with running him down. He was old enough to make his own decisions. And it was easier to blame it on that damned Milkovich kid that she wasn’t supposed to know about. It was easier to blame it on teenage puppy love gone wrong and convince herself that he’d be back. It was a temporary thing. He’d be back.

Her shoulder meets the wooden doorframe and she feels a tear sliding down her cheek. One she won’t stop, she won’t swat away, she won’t wipe off. She won’t do it in front of him. But she won’t stop herself from doing it over him.

————

“What are you still doing up?”

Her voice doesn’t startle him. His back towards the stairs she’s still standing on, reaching for a beer from the fridge, “want one?”

“No. I’m good.”

He shrugs, “suit yourself,” cracking it open. His butt meets the counter behind him and he chugs about half the contents of the can gratefully. And she ignores it. She ignores it because she has the kids and the house and the job and the man and she doesn’t have time to sort out his shit. So she ignores it because it’s easier than fighting. It’s easier than chasing him away. It’s easier than watching him hate her. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he finally offers.

Is that because of the alcohol in your veins? She shrugs, “neither could I.”

Is that because of your failure? But he doesn’t say it, “too hot.”

“Too muggy,” why didn’t you go see him?

“How’s work?” you’re failing me. Just like we failed him.

“Same old,” you’re not my responsibility. You’re just my sibling, “waiting tables and trying not to hit anybody.”

His eyes are bloodshot and his smile is dripping with all the things he is that she’ll never be, the things she was proud of, the things he’s letting go to waste. Daring her to say it. To just say it.

“How’s busting concrete?”

It’s better than being in the psych ward, “hot. Tiring.”

We can dance around this all night, “at least it’s a paycheck.”

I’ll keep doing it as long as you do, “yeah,” the can rises to his lips again and he chugs the other half. Grabbing the pack of smokes off the counter, “going out.”

To the liquor store? To find Frank? To become Frank? Instead, “okay.”

And she slides onto the chair at the end of the kitchen table. Numb. She feels numb. Like the weight of the entire family has pushed her down for the final time. And she’ll never get up again.


	8. Nothing But A Piece Of Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing But A Piece Of Paper

Svetlana wakes from the world of sweating and groping and hands where they’re not welcome and ugly skin sticks where they’re not welcome and that first time, that first time that hand was on her thigh and the very first time her mother told her she was only distraction. She was nothing more than distraction to men. 

The weight of the air is suffocating in this bedroom and his posters are on the wall and he’s sitting on the foot of the bed. And in the night’s dim eery glow he is pale and his eyes are wells and they’re reflecting the wishes of the little girl she was and the little boy he was and those are the things they’ll never be and those are the wishes they’ll never have and it does not matter how many pennies were thrown into that wishing well, it could not change the destiny of a boy beaten by his father and a girl reduced to nothing but a distraction by her mother, nothing but a body part by men. 

His mouth is set in a line that turns up just slightly at the corners. He knows. He’s been there. He has been there. On that couch with the broken face and the broken heart. He has been there. 

Her hand shakes when it rises to push her hair out of her face. She remembers the first time. The first time she woke with a calming presence on the foot of her bed. She was six. It was her grandmother.

“Thank you,” she hears herself whisper.

He nods. He’s been there. He’s been the one thrashing in dreams and nightmares and tangled in his bedsheets and wishing there was a way out, wishing there was a way to forget, to move without the constant reminders of past and present. As though living the life isn’t punishment enough, it cannot be escaped even in sleep. 

“You have been gone.”

“He’s been committed.”

“Is good, yes?”

He shrugs, “maybe.”

“He gets help?”

“If he accepts it.”

“Will he?”

“I don’t know. I guess he has to accept the fact that he’s sick before he can accept the help for it,” his shoulders are slumped in defeat and she wonders how long they’ve been that way. How long since she’s seen him with his shoulders held strong and his head held high. 

He shifts to his feet, his hand seems to trace over her fingers on the bedspread but they don’t touch. And she understands. She understands it all.

————

He’s standing at the back door while she makes breakfast. He’s watching her move and his hands are calm. His eyes are pale. And he leans against the doorframe with his gaze fixed on the boy toddling around behind Svetlana like a hungry baby duck. Always behind her. Always right behind her. 

A smile rises on his face and she wonders at how calm he is. How calm he’s been. In ways she never saw before. In ways she never expected before. Peace. She supposes that is the look of peace. 

He’s in front of her on her walk to work. His footfalls silent and his breath quiet. Even. At the door of Sasha’s, he stops. His eyes fall to the stroller where their son is chewing on a cheek full of Cheerios.

He does not open the door for them. She does not expect him to. He only lingers and he smiles at her when his focus rises from the boy to her face and reminds her, “the blade is in the drawer, the gun is in your purse.”

She nods. The mind is weary and the hands are cold. The breath is slow and the heart is broken. The body is older than it’s years and the life is more than she bargained for and less than she dreamed of. Sometimes the pain of life isn’t worth the dream of living. And sometimes the fear of death is enough to keep breathing. 

He nods knowingly at her and that same sad life-dampened smile lingers on his lips, “I’ll see you.”

“When I see you,” she responds quietly as the door closes behind her.

She stops at the desk to check in, she tucks Yevgeny’s sippy-cup back into the stroller, “who were you talking to?” Nikka leans against the counter next to her.

“Hmm?”

“At the door. Who were you talking to?”

“The baby,” she lies, “just the baby.”

She feels Nikka behind her, following her to the changing room. When she stops at her vanity table and eyes herself in the mirror, smearing more red lipstick on her lips, Nikka leans over the baby, cooing something to him before her eyes rise to lock onto Svetlana’s in the mirror’s image, “have you thought more of my offer?”

She shrugs.

“You come to live with me, I take care of you. I take care of baby. You cook, you clean, you do wifely duties,” she smiles and it’s not cruel, it’s unlike the smiles she’s received from men who have made such offers. It’s unlike the cold harshness of that weathered old man with the angry eyes standing on the porch that day. Telling her he didn’t care who the father was, it was the son, it was his faggot son that she would marry. He wouldn’t pay for an abortion and she would marry the boy. The boy who had been beaten and bloody and broken in all the ways Svetlana had been broken and she knew she was only going to break him further. But there was nothing she could do. She saw an opportunity and she had to take it. 

But he was different, wasn’t he? He was not easy to convince. She could not use her only weapon, the only weapon she’d ever used with men. The one weapon she possessed and she sold at her will or at her mother’s will or at Sasha’s will. But it was hers. And it was ineffective against him. She thinks of the threats and the pushing, forcing him, everyone was always forcing him. That she knew, and that she was used to on her own. 

He stayed. He stayed when he had the chance to run. He had the chance to leave. He had the chance to do the paternity test. He had the chance to chase his love and leave her to fend for herself and the baby growing inside of her. He could have left, and stopped the game before it began. He did not need to raise the baby. It was only his father, it was only to make his father happy, make his father approve of a boy he would never approve of. It was only to make his father love a boy he would never love. 

Or was it? Was it for himself? Or was it for the innocence of a new life?

“The offer stands,” Nikka slides her hand across Svetlana’s bare shoulder, “for as long,” leaning down to kiss her neck, “as you need to mourn.”

“Mourn,” she snorts it, waving her hand in the air as though it was nothing. As though it was all just nothing but a piece of paper. A piece of paper with her name and his name and their son’s name.


	9. I'm Right Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm Right Here

“This a joke?” his green eyes are lingering on the headstone in the cemetery in the dying light of a July night, “is this some kind of,” his hand rises to wash over his face like he can wash off the rising emotions, “I just saw him Fi. I just saw him. He was, he’s been, he’s been with me. He’s been with me!”

And now his lip is trembling and her stomach is quivering and she can’t do anything to stop it. Anything to stop it. Her hand rises, she watches it out of the corner of her eye, it rises and it lands on his strong shoulder and she wonders if she should remind him that he is strong. That he is strong. 

He struggles away from her grasp and his first step is a stumble. She remembers his first steps. She remembers them well. He was standing on a picnic table at a park. Frank was drunk. Of course Frank was drunk. And he had set an eleven month old Ian on the picnic table. While he leaned forward to take his flask out of the diaper bag. Fiona was swinging, swinging, always swinging because in those moments she was flying. She was rising high above the life she already knew she would lead. The life that if she only had wings, she’d fly away from. As high and as far as she could.

She was swinging. And she watched the whole thing. She watched Frank’s head tilted back, chugging away at his booze. Then her feet obscuring her view. The feeling in her stomach like everything was okay. Like everything was okay because she was flying. And she was flying far away from this life.

Then her eyes landed on that quaff of orange hair. And the look in his eyes of determination. His hand had darted out, landing in Frank’s hair and pulled tight, getting himself to his feet with the aid of a man pouring booze down his throat at a picnic table in a park. Frank’s hand had risen as though he was swatting a fly away, but Ian’s grasp was firm and he was ready.

Then her feet. Blocking her view. A smile rising on her face. 

Smile growing wider when he reappeared in her vision. Both hands in Frank’s hair while Frank cursed him out and started to shimmy away. The shimmy only caused Ian to take a step. Then another. Then another. The full length of the picnic table. He was nearly running by the time he got to the end and fell off into the grass. 

Her feet blocked her view. And her life fell back into place as she dragged her worn out shoes in the dirt, sending dust puffing up from all around her and her life of flying was over. Making her way over to her screaming brother who wouldn’t be calmed by Frank. She knew that. Already. She knew that. It didn’t take much effort to pry him from Frank’s grasp. As he muttered things to the little boy about being ungrateful for his father’s help. 

Ian’s arms wrapped around her eagerly, his face dipped into her neck as he snuffled away the scare, ‘shh, it’s okay, I’m right here’. It rose from her lips, floated around them like fog and remained there for so many years, ‘I’m right here’ whether I want to be or not.

She takes a step back when his eyes land on her face now. They’re wild, darting back and forth between hers, not lingering on either for long. He’s a broken record, “this is a joke.”

Her hand tries again, tries again to make the contact, to be the contact that settles his pain, calms his confusion. Her voice is weak and it can’t even convince herself anymore, “it’s okay Ian. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

“No,” another backwards step, “no. This is a fucking joke Fi. Whoever is buried here, that’s not Mickey, that’s not Mickey. Mickey was here. He was right here,” his hand rises from his side and traces through the air, “he was right here,” vision leaving her face now to start scanning the cemetery, “he was right here,” it’s quiet now, barely a whisper, “he was right here,” his eyes catch on the wedding band that Svetlana brought over. Mickey’s wedding band. The way the dying light of day is catching the gold, sparking like the very first switch of a lighter, “he was right here,” his face twists, his legs wobble and he lands in the grass on his butt. 

Fiona feels her body making up her mind before her mind can tell her body to stop, to let him be, to let him be a grown man. On her knees, taking his face in her hands gently, aiming his gaze, “Ian, Mickey has been dead for over a year. If you saw him recently it was a delusion,” her voice chokes off, his eyes watery and searching her face for answers she doesn’t have but she wants to give him, “I’m sorry Sweet Face. I’m so sorry.”


	10. Then I'll Never Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then I'll Never Leave

“How?” he watches her bring the lit cigarette to her lips, taking a slow drag, appraising him on the sidewalk outside her place of work, “how did it happen?”

“Maybe you do not need to know these things. Maybe you do need to know these things. Maybe somewhere inside your head you already do. Maybe dusty in your mind, underneath medications and delusions. Maybe you need reminder.”

He nods, eyes narrowing as she speaks. He hates her. He hates her with every part of his soul. Because she was the one, the one who got the vows from the lips that had kissed the promises into Ian’s, she got to slide the ring on the finger of the hand that had set Ian’s life on fire, zapped him with electricity, made him a live-wire, unsafe for anyone else to touch. 

Finally, she sighs, waves her hand in the air, a trail of thin smoke following her gesture. Dropping the cig on the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of her shoe, “you come by house. Tonight. I tell you.”

“But I’m here. Now. And I…”

Her lips are curled into a smile that is either cruel or understanding and he’s not certain he wants to know which one it is. It stops his words and halts the beating of his heart. She nods, and closes the door.

—————

“Was this your plan?” he wonders, holding the baby spoon out towards the little boy with the round face, pale blue eyes, and blonde wispy hair, “get me to come over, torture me with the life you had with him while I was his mistress? Show me the things you had together that I’d never get to have?”

“No. Was not plan. Maybe I have roof over head, maybe I had baby in belly, maybe I had ring, maybe I had vows. You,” she sighs, sliding a cup across the table, a coffee mug that when Ian blinks he can see it resting in the grip of that FUCK hand that he feels sliding through his hair, “had love. His love.”

She says it bitterly. Like maybe it was something she wanted all along, but never got. His mouth opens to remind her that Mickey only married her to get his father off his back about being a queer, but his mind realizes there’s not point in that.

Her smile is sad, her face is older than her years, “you had it too. You remember.”

It’s not a question. But the answer is no. He doesn’t. Gaze falling to his left hand. It was so real, it was all so real. The wedding band, the vows, the kiss. It was so real. 

“Is his.”

“What is?”

She’s watching his hand as well, “wedding ring. Is his.”

“And yours.”

“No,” she brings her own mug to her lips and somewhere in a corridor of his mind that is too full to sort through, something feels familiar about this, “vows are not true when intention is not to keep them.”

“What?”

“He say vows to me, yes. But never mean them,” her left hand reaches across the table to slide over the little boy’s head. Ian’s eyes fall on her wedding band, “boy belongs to Terry. Your rainbow boy knew that.”

She falls silent, eyes lingering on Ian’s face for a long moment. 

Fuck, it’s right there, it’s in there somewhere, isn’t it? Somewhere under the meds and under the delusions an under the disorder, taken away, just another thing taken away by the disorder. But it’s there, it’s right there, it has to be. Lingering on the tip of his tongue and slithering down his throat. Wiggling in his ears and misting across his eyes.

The evening. Mickey came out. He came out at the Alibi. That night. That night they walked home in silence. Blood cold and drying on their faces, anger settling on their chests, uneasiness and pain in the space between them on the sidewalk where their shoulders kept bumping against one another. He wanted to take his hand. He wanted to take Mickey’s hand in his and tell him all the things he could never, he could never tell him before, and he could never tell him again. But he knew, Mickey knew those things. And Ian didn’t have to say them. And Ian knew, he knew the things that Mickey wouldn’t say. He knew them.

They stopped on the porch. The night was cold. Winter still holding Spring in an icy death grip, unwilling to die. Winter lasted forever that year. That was the first year, wasn’t it? The first year they called it Polar Vortex. Polar Vortex to everyone south of the Great Lakes. Just cold, just winter, just another winter to everyone used to winter. Just a winter that lasted. The last bits of ice and frost lingering against the cement at the curb. Under the yellow glow of the streetlight. 

They stopped on the porch. Too tired to talk. Too wound up to sleep. Too much and too little. And everything in between. Mickey lit a smoke. He took a drag. Ian watched the smoke roll off his lips, he watched it hang in the air between them along with all the other things they’d never acknowledge. He watched his hand rise to touch the cloud of smoke. Mickey mistook it for wanting the cig, and he handed it over. But Ian’s hand missed the smoke stick and landed on his pursed lips. His brows dipped in confusion. Looking at Ian with ‘we don’t do this’ all over his face, ‘this isn’t us’ all over the air between them. But Ian’s finger stayed there without Mickey swatting it away. It stayed on his warm soft lips and his eyes stayed locked on and every single fucking word he should have said in that moment was interrupted by his fingertip sliding across Mickey’s face, following the trail of his sore jaw until it found the handle to tilt his face, tilt his face and lean into his lips. So slowly, so gently. And only briefly, briefly in a time that should have lasted, could have lasted. 

Ian’s eyes shift to the baby in the high chair when he squalls. The spoon is licked dry and Ian is holding it out in front of him, hovering in the air like that ghost on the porch, that ghost of a conversation that never happened and it should have happened.

They had gone inside. Stood under the warm spray of the shower together. Cleaned each other, trying not to hurt, trying not to sting, trying not to break. Crawling into Mickey’s bed that he shared with his whore wife that Ian hated. They were too tired and too awake. Too little and too much. It was always that way with them, wasn’t it? But Ian had wrapped his arms around Mickey, he had smelled the back of his neck. He didn’t want to fuck him. He didn’t want to talk to him. He just wanted to hold him. Mickey, a Mickey Ian had never seen before, a Mickey who was willing to receive affection. He was willing to allow that. The first time. Was it the last?

It couldn’t have been the last, “when?”

She shrugs, the mug being brought to her lips again, “why does baby not think you to be a stranger?”

“What?” looking over at his big blue eyes, so familiar but so fucking far away. Watching him, he’s given up on the spoon and is now dipping his fingers into his bowl and licking them off. Soup, it’s a mean trick to play on a baby at this stage. A baby just figuring out a spoon but not willing to give up finger foods. He watches the baby’s mouth, the way he’s sucking the soup broth off his fingers. Somewhere in the fog is a baby, a baby on a changing table gurgling to him as his foot folds up to his face and his toes disappear into his mouth, “I know you,” he hears himself say. 

Svetlana props her chin on her hand. There is nothing judgmental in her gaze. Nothing forceful or hateful. There is nothing more than a gentle expression of support. 

“I was here. We were living together. That summer. Last summer,” his voice gets thick and his eyes water. How? How could he forget? How could he forget that he had the love, he had the family, he had the man? He had him. He had him, he had the vows without the ceremony. He had the vows every night, every night, and every morning over coffee. Every night over kisses and touches. Every night over laughs, smiles. Every night over love making. And every morning. Over breakfast. And coffee. Every day over diaper changes and rocking the baby against his chest and feeding the baby from the bottle and holding the baby until he fell asleep in his arms and setting the baby so gently back in bed. And standing over him to make sure he was sound asleep, to make sure no one was going to hurt him, no one was going to come barging in drunk and ready for a fight. Making sure, “but it happened anyway,” it happened anyway. It happened. And Mickey wasn’t ready for it. He wasn’t ready.

—————

When he wakes he is in the familiar scent of Mickey. Mickey’s body heat and the zapping of his flesh right there against him. Against his chest and his stomach. His rough calloused hand on his cheek. His smile half hidden in the pillow. His eyes, his eyes so blue, now so pale. His eyes so full of life and promise, no longer. 

“Hey,” he hears himself whisper, “I thought you left.”

His head shakes, “never,” gaze lingering on Ian’s face, “not until you’re ready.”

—————

There is movement at the foot of the bed. Weight, body weight being lowered. And something being set down by his knees. Something moving towards his chest. His chest where Mickey was only moments ago. Pale blue eyes replaced by bright blue eyes. Perfectly chiseled features replaced by chubby and pink cheeks. Gorgeous thoughtful lips replaced by soft red ones lined with drool and open with a smile.

“Hey Yev,” his voice is crusty, but not by days, only by a night.

A tiny hand rises, and drops heavily on his shoulder. Rising up and down, up and down like he’s somewhere between patting and slapping, “Dada. Dada. Dada.”

A cloud of things familiar and unfamiliar rise in Ian’s chest and his breath shakes.

“Syniki for breakfast,” comes from the foot of the bed and the weight shifts. But the baby stays. 

—————

“What if I’m never ready?” he wonders when he watches Mickey’s face settle into the pillow in front of him. In front of him with his back to the door. 

His fingers rise, ghosting Ian’s flesh and rising goose-bumps under the breeze of touch, “then I’ll never leave.”


	11. Keeping Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping Watch

He’s changed throughout the years. And you notice. You notice every line and every wrinkle. Every new scar and every old one fading away to nothing more than a memory of a childhood you spent together. You notice the way he moves and the way he talks. The way he smiles every night when he lays his head on the pillow. Your pillow. Your pillow. And on just the other side of the wall is your son. Your son who is growing. And changing and you notice that too. And you keep track in your mind. And you remember the first day he saw you. The first time his eyes locked onto yours from across the room and stayed there. And he watched you with wonder and awe in his little round face and he pointed. And he said, ‘daddy’s here’. You remember it. And you remember his first day of school and his first day of baseball. You’ll always remember the day he got hollered at for lollygagging in the outfield and his middle finger rose towards the coach before his hands dropped to piss his name on the sun scorched field. You remember his first crush and his first broken heart. You remember when he won the science fair. You walked with him at graduation and he tried to pretend you weren’t there. You waited in the parking lot when he unloaded his car and lugged all his belongings into the dorm. You watched him fall in love and get married and become a man, a man you were proud of. And his mother was proud of. And his dad was proud of.

She’s changed throughout the years. You first noticed the softness creeping into her features when your son was two. You first noticed her hard lines turning into caring lines when Yev was three and Ian was studying to become an EMT. You noticed her caring lines turning into smile lines when Yev was five and Ian was studying to become a paramedic. And her smile lines turned into laugh lines when Yev was eight and Ian was studying to become a nurse. She changed, you think, and she changed for the better. You never doubted she’d be a good mother. And it was then, that moment when she came in the bedroom with Yev on her hip and Ian in her bed, when she came in and laid the little boy on the mattress, when she took a seat at Ian’s feet and she lingered there. She studied him slowly, she watched him reach for the boy and she remembered the time he was unmoving in that same bed for weeks. In the Spring. That Spring. But that day, it was the one that she left the baby in Ian’s care, she trusted him with the baby, and she cooked breakfast. You watched her moving around the kitchen, humming to herself, and you watched her searching through his bag for his pills. It was in that moment, as she laid them out next to his breakfast plate, that you understood her. So suddenly. And so definitively. You smiled at her and you whispered, ‘thank you’. She might have pretended it wasn’t for you, that is, if you didn’t know everything about her. She might have tried to pretend it wasn’t about Ian, and maybe that one, maybe she could have convinced you of that, but you both knew it was for all of you. It was for all four of you. 

You watched as they figured out how to live together without stepping on each other’s toes. You watched as she packed up her things and moved them back to Colin’s old room, the one you had sent her to after you came out, after you announced that your marriage was a sham to half the Southside. And you pushed her aside, packed her things and moved them to Colin’s room. He would never see life on this side of freedom again anyway. And it wasn’t a bad room, not really, not once she cleaned it up. But then, that first night she let Ian stay, she let him stay in your room, in your bed, the one you shared once upon a time with either of them. But she knew the reasons, she knew they were different, and she knew it was him, it was Ian who needed to sleep there and feel you there, wake up there with you. 

You watched as they became a family. A stable, happy family. And you stayed. You stayed because you promised you would. 

And him. Ian Gallagher, that fucker. How many times did you tell him to move on? How many times? At least a fucking million. And he kept saying there was no reason to move on, you were there, and as long as you stayed there’d be no reason to move on. And you asked him, of course you asked him, at least a million times if he was ready, ready for you to leave. And he’d smile that smile, that one that told you everything you needed to know, every single thing you always knew anyway; that he needed you, yeah, but it wasn’t about that. He wanted you. He wanted you. Always.

And one day in the house that you were born in, the house you grew up in, the house you fell in love in, the house you raised your son in, the house you died in; one day in that house under the L with the peeling paint and the faded linoleum where your son took his first steps, one day in that house you watched him, you watched the man you love rocking your grand baby to sleep. You watched him singing and smiling and kissing her forehead and telling her that she was loved, she was so loved. You watched him as he laid in her the pack-n-play, in the bedroom where your son slept for his entire childhood, you watched as he crept out of the room, stood in the doorway and blew her a kiss. Then he stopped at the couch, he leaned forward and kissed the top of her head, where her hair and turned to grey, and he told her that he was tired, he was feeling really damn tired and he was going to turn in early. And you’d have to remember to rib him for talking like an old man later. You watched her hand rise, her wrinkled hand to squeeze his on the couch and assure him that she had a listening ear on the baby, that all her assurances and reassurances to Yev and his wife, that those weren’t bullshit. That ‘baby was fine, baby was okay spending night away from home for first time.’ 

Ian had smiled then, one last glance at the open bedroom doorway before he made his way to the bathroom. You’d have to remember to rib him for walking like an old man too. But he beat you to it. Washing up, wrinkled hands, still wearing that golden band, hands that had saved so many lives throughout the years and held so many hands of nervous patients and scared kids and worried parents and people whose worst fears had just become a reality; those hands were resting on the sink when he smiled in the mirror, catching a glimpse of you behind him and he said, ‘I’ve turned into an old man.’

You crossed your arms over your chest, leaned back against the wall and smirked, ‘sure have grey bush, sure have.’

His smile grew wider for a moment before falling into something wistful when he told you, ‘and you’re still a gorgeous young man.’

‘Gorgeous,’ you scoffed and rolled your eyes.

‘Insanely so. Fuck, I hope I’m not an old man in the afterlife. Chasing you around.’

‘Geriatric viagroid,’ you accused.

He smirked and in the mirror looking back at you was that boy in the gold shorts with the club lights flashing and music deafening, ‘never.’

You watched him get ready for bed that night. You watched him as he laid down, and you laughed at him when he groaned like an old man. You ran your fingers through his hair, the fire that had turned to ash years ago but still felt like fire against your hand. You brushed your hand from crown to nape, ‘get some rest Grandpa,’ as you kissed his forehead. 

And you knew something was off, something wasn’t right, so you stayed. Instead of telling her goodnight, instead of keeping watch over your grand baby, you stayed. And you were there when his eyes opened wide and landed on your face, you whispered, ‘don’t be afraid.’

He blinked, his eyes stayed on you and he relaxed, he let go, he was ready. He reached for your face and you smiled, ‘it’s okay. I’m here tough guy. I’m here.’

She’ll push the bedroom door open tomorrow after he doesn’t get up early, after he doesn’t respond when she knocks, her hand will rise to her lips, she’ll bit her knuckle to choke off the gasp but it won’t stop the tears. They’ll tell her later that it was a massive heart attack and he didn’t feel any pain. And you’ll smirk at her and say, ‘it had to be massive for a heart that size.’

And she’ll only cry harder. But it’s okay, it’ll be okay. He lived, he lived a long and healthy life. He touched so many lives, hers being only one of the many. You’ll hold her hand at the ceremony and you’ll watch them, all of them, all of those lives he touched and all of those faces of the people who loved him. Loved him through the years you were gone. The years you were gone but had never left. You never left. 

When it’s over and she smiles at you, she knows, and she’s ready now. She can be on her own. And maybe, you’ll smile, ‘I’ll see you in the next life,’ and she’ll flick a tear off her cheek and mutter, ‘I hope not.’

You’ll walk to the ridge-line in the cemetery and you’ll stop, just for a moment, just long enough to look at your son. And her son. And his son. Just for long enough to see his blue eyes, landing on yours. And you’ll nod, he’ll nod back and you’ll turn. 

You’ll turn, and when you turn there’s a boy in a dugout. With the reddest hair and the greenest eyes. And the dopiest fucking smile you’ve ever seen in this life or any of the others. And that smile, that smile will echo across every single life for the rest of time. You’ll smile back, you won’t be able to help yourself, you’ll cock your head and say, ‘c’mere firecrotch.’


	12. Echoes Of Every Lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Echoes Of Every Lifetime

I stood at a gate today. It wasn’t a golden gate with high arches and blue sky over a world of puffy white clouds. It wasn’t a line of lost souls begging to get in. There was no gate-keeper with a golden bound book calling people by name. There was no screaming as souls were ripped from the clouds by charred black hands with claws so long they curl around themselves. There were no angels with harps and graceful white feathered wings. There’s no bursting bright sunlight or ivy cascading from pillars of marble.

No. None of that.

I stood at a gate today. My hand was growing cold on the iron bar as I watched the door of the house. The house where I ran when I had nowhere else to go. The house where I didn’t come to see you. The house where I awoke after my first manic episode. The house where we made love for the first time. Where I held the baby, that baby, and I watched his blue eyes watching me and I thought of you.

I thought of you, I thought of you. The only safe place I’ve ever known. You.

—————  
Ian Gallagher wakes with a start on a cold damp sidewalk, the midmorning light a pale grey and the dampness in his bones immediately familiar as Springtime in Chicago. His mouth is too dry to swallow and his hands are too shaky to rub his own eyes. The world is a blur of rushing in his ears and throbbing in his head. 

Dragging himself to seated, the world is an unfamiliar one. But the streets are the same. The same. The same as what? The same as when he fell asleep? The same as his last lifetime?

He shakes his head, palm landing quickly on his forehead in attempt to keep the contents of his head inside when they’re threatening to explode, “fuck,” how much did he have to drink last night? 

His body is Jello and he’s wading though molasses with bones that have turned to mush. Lifting his cupped hands to his mouth to blow hot air, rubbing as vigorously as he can muster, “fuck,” he’s tired, he’s so fucking tired. 

He steps towards the streetlamp, gaze lingering on the pole in broad daylight. Where the fuck is he? What part of the city still has lampposts from the fucking 1920’s? He pats down the front of his poly-blend coat for his smokes, hands instead finding wool. His eyes drop to scan over his form. A navy blue, knee-length overcoat, “what the fuck?”

In the pocket is a matchbook, and the smokes he was looking for. Smokes inside a silver case. He strikes the match, lights the cig, leans against the post and waits. He’ll wake soon, this is all just a dream, isn’t it? 

He’s laughing to himself as he removes the hat on his head only to find a newsboy cap. Fuck, this is a weird fucking dream. Sighing as nicotine fills his senses, closing his eyes to the damp Spring wind. Behind him he can hear the docks. The Southshore docks. The bustle of industry. 

Well, he supposes he should start moving. Maybe the first stop in this dream is the name on the matchbook. He takes a step away from the post on legs that are uncertain and having a hard fucking time coming back to life. He eyes on the logo, certain there is a pub nearby with the same logo. There must be, but he can’t make it out, it’s not rising any memories into his hangover-fogged brain. A jarring against his shoulder, raising his head to apologize but his breath is taken from his lungs when a set of blue stained glass eyes land on his with a glare and a warning, “it’s a sidefuckingwalk, not a sidefuckingstand.”

That voice echoes in every corridor of Ian’s brain, “I…” his life like a movie reel, an old film, silent and black and white. Black and white with the blue of his eyes. Flashing through Ian’s mind, there he is. There he is standing at a beach house in Mexico where they raised their daughter. There he is in a prison cell in Chicago, Ian wishing he had never let him cross that border alone. There he is hiding in the corner where he’s pulled a dresser to box himself in, only a glimpse of his blue eyes that Ian can see through the crack between the dresser and the wall. There he is singing on stage with a rust colored wig, graceful gloved fingers delicately playing a piano as the crowd draws ever closer to hear every hauntingly beautiful word parting his pink painted lips. There he is floating on the surface of Lake Michigan as they run away together to watch the world end. There he is, that hand reaching for Ian’s before he can drown. And there he is, there he is in a cage with three gorgeous tigers, wearing a blue shirt with just a splash of sequins on the right shoulder, stealing the show. He’s there too, raising a daughter with blue eyes and dark hair and a potty mouth to rival his own. And fuck, he’s right there, learning how to dance for their wedding night. Repeating vows in a chapel in Vegas, or a courthouse in the Southside, or a starlit desert night in Mexico. He’s on base in California washing a crying baby girl with red hair in a sink in the kitchen and he looks so flustered all Ian can do is kiss his neck and slide the squalling baby into his own hands, cammies be damned, this is the true life or death scenario that Marine Corps training could never prepare a man for.

He’s there, sitting on a park bench with a service dog at his leg, his eye is a fogged over blue as his face rises and his gaze lands on Ian’s. And there, standing in the dusty street, counting off his paces with his hand lingering, ready to land on the holstered iron on his hip. And he’s there, taking classes in New York while he waits for Ian to finish up his training at West Point. Fuck, and he’s there, his breath catching in his throat as Ian’s hand graces the surface of his scarred chest, and there bleeding on the floor of the house in the Southside while Ian whispers, ‘stay with me, just stay with me’. 

Ian’s breath catches as the voice, the voice that is the same voice in every life, in every memory, echoes in every empty cavern of Ian’s brain. As his eyes, his blue eyes that hold the promise of a bubble bobbing lazily over the expanse of a summer sky before it falls gracefully into a sea of dew laden grass, his eyes, the eyes that are the same on every plane of existence, in every realm of time, in every single universe near and far, on the surface of Neptune as it pulls Triton closer and closer with every revolution. His fingers, his fingers meant to FUCK U-UP, his fingers FEARLESS, and his fingers nothing more than burned scarred flesh; but his fingers nonetheless, his fingers that rise the electricity, the bolts of lightening, call the tide to the moon, damn Ian’s flesh to never feel anything beyond those fingers burning and zapping and making him toxic to anyone else. 

And they’re the same, and Ian hears himself whisper, “I know you,” as those fingers rise with a lit cig to his perfect lips.

He blows the smoke slowly through the damp Spring air between them, Ian watches the cloud linger, hover, dissipate and the space between them clear of all obstructions, a cocky curl to his lips and a low warning growl, “no you fuckin’ don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip, snap, snout this tale is told out. Or is it? Is it just a gateway to another life lived in 1920's Chicago? 
> 
> The old movie reel is images of my works that some of you (thanks to you that have read all my works, I love you) may recognize. And maybe you don't recognize because they haven't taken shape - just yet ;)
> 
> Alright, if you made it, thank you! You know the drill, kudos, comments, share, wipe your ass with it, whatever floats your boat.
> 
> Sorry, I broke all kinds of narrative rules, but, well, fuckever. 
> 
> I exited a bunker a couple weeks ago, joined a circus, left one night after a performance and fell into a delusion within an endless cycle of lives. This is the joy of fiction. And now that I got that out of my system, I can return to The Circus and continue to write on the path of light and easy :)

**Author's Note:**

> Your company, kudos, and comments are appreciated :)


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